


Just Above Our Heads

by MinMinn



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Biting, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Caryll is a baby Farnese, Caryll is also a total closet otaku, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotions, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Foreplay, Gehrman doesn't like anything, I could be writing a thesis but, Laurence is a smol boy, Ludwig is a tol boy, Making Out, Maria is Regina George, Master Willem used to be dapper, Micolash plays bass guitar, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missionary Position, Multi, Rescue, Smoking, Smut, Social Anxiety, Sweet boy vs. Bad boy, Teasing, This is what happens when you speculate for four years straight, Undressing, angsty making out, encroaching mania, forest sex?, here we are, no seriously, origins story, probably too much foreshadowing, she has too many drawings of Micolash, sickness/ consumption, slight training combat, someone save me from myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMinn/pseuds/MinMinn
Summary: The Choir stumbled upon an epiphany, very suddenly and quite by accident. Here we stand, feet planted in the earth, but might the cosmos be very near us, only just above our heads?Laurence, The First Vicar, now holds dominion over Yharnam along with his newly founded Healing Church. Blood ministration has reached its pinnacle, Yharnamites flock to Cathedral doors by the thousands, an Orphanage begins its research ...And a young girl has an epiphany.What follows are the untold tales of a group of young Byrgenwerth scholars, and the sudden accident that flung them all into the vice of the cosmos.[ON HIATUS]





	1. The First Vicar

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to stay as true to the known lore as possible, but please also expect a WHOLE lot of liberties taken along the way. This is how I like to imagine it _could_ have been, but everyone's interpretation of lore - especially SoulsBorne style lore - is valid and amazing. 
> 
> Kind feedback of all kinds is welcome, and don't forget to comment/ subscribe/ kudos if you like what you've read <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence fights his inevitable rise to power. Ludwig watches on.

Laurence stood before the Cathedral doors, holding his breath.

The stiff robes that adorned him were like ship anchors ( _like leather bindings, like umbilical cords_ ) draped across his shoulders. They were made of some heavy red and black fabric, which hung low to the ground. There was gold filigree, too, and white ruffles ... a pendant as well, nestled in the black folds that covered his chest.

The day had hardly begun, and he already felt trapped.

Behind the great stone doors before him, thousands of expectant ( _hungry_ ) Yharnamites awaited his arrival, like some sort of dark wedding ceremony. He could feel their anticipation like the onset of rain – it sucked the air out of his lungs and threatened to suffocate him.

He let one pale ( _paleblood, palemoon_ ) hand rest against the stone, feeling its cool, hard surface. This would do, for now. Perhaps he could stop the swimming feeling in his mind if he just focused on this one door. This ridiculously ornate, larger-than-the-cosmos door that stood between him and the people inside.

Try as he might to ignore it, something large and terrible was gnawing at the fringes of his already tattered mind. Was that a voice he heard? Voices? His mind grew frantic as he tried to chase it ... until it melded into the muted chatterings of the crowd behind the door.

He could hardly tell the difference between those thoughts anymore ( _between sheets, between music notes_ ). At his worst, when the night was impossibly dark, and the walls of his chambers crept towards him, his thoughts grew into a torrent of light and sound. No distinction. No breathing room. They threatened to engulf him. Even now, at the brink of this crowning moment, when he should be proud and mighty, they rose above him. High and dark. A tide ready to drown. Just as his stiff robes drowned his now thin frame.

Had he once been taller? Fuller?

( _Full of blood, full of eyes_ ).

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Laurence...”

With a jolt, Laurence swam to the surface. The tide crashed... and ebbed away. As his thoughts grew distant ( _not gone, always here_ ), he could just make out his pale hand against the door once again.

He realised he was on the floor, curled against it like some kind of beggar ( _monster, Great One_ ). He looked up with frantic eyes at the hand on his shoulder, then the dark figure looming over him.

“Ludwig ...”

“Come, Laurence,” Ludwig said softly, “We must face this.”

His chiseled face swam into view out of the shadows. The room was far lighter than it had been a moment ago – bright white sunlight streaming in through stained-glass windows, the small shadows of cheerful birds peppering the floor around them. A bell ( _a summons, a beckoning_ ) tolled somewhere nearby. And Ludwig’s face filled his vision as the man knelt beside him.

Laurence could see that his old friend’s face was now embellished with lines – hardened, in a way. In truth, they were all lined and hardened now. His friends, himself ... with their pinched mouths that damned a tide of secrets, eyes that threatened to brim over with tears ( _blood, beasts, truths_ ).

Ludwig’s eyes were impossibly dark against his pale skin, and yet somehow still kind. The darkness was warm ... inviting. 

A stray lock of black hair fell across them as he cocked his head to the side. “Laurence,” he repeated, softer still. “Come.”

“Y-yes ...” he replied, gaining some form of strength to his voice. “Yes, my ... apologies...”

Gripping Ludwig’s arm, Laurence allowed his weight to press on him, just for a moment. _Let him carry me to the altar..._

“Laurence,” Ludwig said with a rasping chuckle, “I cannot _carry_ you to your own coronation.”

Laurence allowed himself a thin smile. Ludwig was always reading his thoughts. Well ... not all of them, he hoped.

“It’s hardly a coronation, old friend,” Laurence’s voice cracked.

“It might as well be,” Ludwig replied. His dark eyes were now trained on the door. The same fear danced in them, but also that same all-devouring hunger.

“Indeed,” Laurence stared with him. He could _see_ the people beyond those doors. He knew their faces, their hopes, and fears. He had curated them, after all.

Laurence allowed himself to lean further into his old friend. It took everything within him not to bury his head in his chest – the warmth there beckoned him. The strength. He could feel it, even behind the wall of white fabric that covered it.

“What ... are you wearing?” Laurence said teasingly, trying to lift their spirits. He played with the thick brocade fabric that adorned Ludwig’s new elaborate robe. It was similar to his own, though far more muted in its frivolity. The brocade adornments across his shoulders were thinner, and the filigree was a dull silver rather than obnoxious gold. Yet, on Ludwig, it looked as if it were made for royalty. His shoulders were far broader than his own, giving his silhouette a clean, regal cut. And his arms were plated with shining metal, the gauntlets studded and inlaid with filigree.

As he mused, Laurence heard Ludwig sigh, and could almost _feel_ his eyes rolling.

“I could say the same of you. We look like pieces of furniture.”

Laurence laughed lightly, “Yes, ridiculous”. His tousled blonde hair shook loose of the tall mitre that adorned his head as he chuckled. Ludwig laughed along with him.

“And this,” he gestured to the headpiece, “Just whose idea was it to adorn you with such ... _hideous_ vestments?” He reached effortlessly to tuck Laurence’s hair back into place, thankfully ignoring the soft pink blush spreading across Laurence’s face as he did so.

“I ... I believe it was Maria if you recall?” he replied, turning his face away.

“Ah yes, our ever fashionable friend,” Ludwig chuckled again. “Has anyone actually told her how _outdated_ her style is? That sword of hers, positively _ancient_ ”

Laurence laughed again. His strength was returning. Strength of mind. Strength of heart. He could feel Ludwig’s steady heartbeat beneath his hand.

“Let us try, old friend,” Ludwig said suddenly. His voice was thinner, almost frantic with some sort of endless excitement he seemed to carry with him at all times. Ready to bare its fangs at any moment. “As you said, we stand on a precipice. Do you remember?”

Laurence managed a curt nod, squashing the rising panic. He _did_ remember. Remembered his old comrades, huddled in a cold, stone room, frantic whispers filling the air. Maria, Micolash, Caryll, Gehrman.

Ludwig.

Yes, he had been by his side all along. Always stalwart in his ideals, always a strong arm when Laurence’s weak spirit needed it most. He gripped it tighter now in his thin fingers, forcing himself to rise to his full height. His shoulders straightened ( _creaked, cracked_ ), his chin lifting until it pointed high. High above the people beyond that door.

“We _must_ try,” Laurence said, letting go of his friend’s arm. His voice even surprised himself – strong, authoritative.

Just who was he becoming?

( _Coming. Beckoning_ ).

Before he could let the thought bloom, the doors were flung open.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Yharnamites would remember that fateful day for centuries to come. The sun, the warmth, the music. It was a day celebrated like Queen Yharnam’s own birthday. Moreso, in fact. It truly _was_ a coronation.

The brand new Cathedral shone like a beacon as it stood, grand and magnificent, at the top of the ward. The town had already begun to change, with new churches and cathedrals springing up around them like great stone flowers. Sickhouses had turned into elegant hospitals, statues and towers had risen above the mud and dirt – mud and dirt that had defined Yharnam for so long. It was becoming a jewel of the land – foreigners from far and wide venturing into its now clean and glistening streets, along with every Yharnamite with ears to hear. The Grand Cathedral itself was full to bursting with such people. Royalty, dignitaries, missionaries, diplomats, merchants ... and a throng of common-folk, standing behind the seating like carrion perched on trees. There were children clinging to mothers, and tradesmen, still streaked with the toil of their labours. The unwashed masses, all bearing witness to this momentous ceremony.

The Church had spared no expense. The walls were draped with the finest of tapestries, depicting Laurence as saviour, healer, warrior. The altar itself was enough to silence any crowd. It depicted worshippers, kneeling, sitting, all with arms outstretched to the heavens. Upon its surface, a fine red tapestry told the story of the Blessed Blood, with candlelight illuminating its holy tale.

And higher still, a magnificent statue of Laurence himself, arms outstretched to the worshippers beneath him, a vessel in his hand pouring the sweet blood upon them.

The crowd were all transfixed by the statue as the doors were flung open, and the figure of Laurence himself made its way down the aisle. His face was stone, his figure chiseled and unyielding, even as he gracefully walked toward the aisle, not a hair was out of place, not a footfall out of place.

From that day forth, in every household, upon everyone’s lips, the tale of his beauty and elegance, his proud stance, his commanding voice, was never far. He spoke with such authority, even the royalty that were present were submissive to him. He positively _shone_ as he walked the aisle of the Cathedral that day, flower petals raining down upon him as the choir sang his praises.

And the Yharnamites wept as he knelt at the altar. They cried out to him as the scepter was placed in his hands. A new, gold-adorned mitre replaced the old as the Bishop pronounced him...

Laurence, the First Vicar of the Healing Church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The altar statue has been knowingly changed, and as this story will primarily take place long before the events of the actual game, I think it's safe to assume there would have been a lot of aesthetic differences between the two time periods. I believe the altar would have depicted Laurence himself at the time of the Healing Church's establishment, and perhaps the woman came later.


	2. Young Scholars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the young Byrgenwerth Scholars begins to unravel as Laurence remembers that first fateful meeting

By the time the Nightmare was over - centuries after the birth of the infant Great One and well into that era’s prosperous future – the rise and fall of Laurence, The First Vicar was a well-known tale. He was even praised, by some, in dark corners of dark colleges, as the herald of the “Necessary Evil” humanity had needed in order to ascend as they deserved.

Few knew of his humble beginnings, or of the true power that small group of young scholars held in their trembling hands during their time at Byrgenwerth. Despite all the findings, all the knowledge the Infant Great One had provided, Byrgenwerth remained shrouded in mystery. The scholars themselves were documented well enough – Micolash and his Nightmare, The Crimes of Lady Maria, even Runesmith Caryll was well-known, despite her having never met the Infant Great One during their time as Hunter. Gold inlaid tomes could be found with their names adorning them throughout all the great colleges of the land.

Yet they almost always began with “A group of young Byrgenwerth scholars ...” and detailed their various misdeeds that followed. Few knew of the strong friendships they had forged. Laurence’s infamous speeches, or his various summer flames. Micolash’s essays or Maria’s cooking. Lakeside trists. Boat rides at midnight.

Laurence held those memories with him like cherished letters. Like family heirlooms. For they _were_ family, by the time they left that college. Only a family could do what they did, and remain bound for all eternity together. For better or worse, in sickness and in health...

It was Laurence that held them together, though he would deny it right until the moment of his death. He would argue it was Ludwig – his strength and immovable will. _His_ vision. Yet Laurence was the lifeblood of their family. It was _he_ who brought them together, in the beginning, and _he_ who held them together until the bitter end.

When speaking of it, Laurence would remember it all starting in the lecture halls, though that wasn’t entirely true. Ludwig had first noticed Laurence in the cafeteria one bitterly cold morning. In the depths of winter, the Byrgenwerth students would huddle near the cooking fires and soup pots of the cafeteria like moths to a flame. The old wooden building held little respite from the biting cold that drifted off the lake, and so that morning, Ludwig had found himself shoulder to shoulder with Gehrman, and a stranger.

In those days, the students were young. Far too young, some might have argued. Caryll was only fifteen at the time of Laurence’s arrival, Laurence himself barely out of his teens. Gehrman was the oldest among them, followed by Maria who, at that time, was only permitted conversation with other Ladies of various royal households. Even among them, she was an outsider, and preferred the company of her chambermaid to any of the other students. Micolash was almost ageless in appearance, though he himself had only seen eighteen winters.

Ludwig, barely twenty-one, had no trace of the weathered lines and hardened look of battle his face would become so accustomed to in later years. His high cheekbones, square jaw, and chiseled brow were still prominent, though the skin was far smoother. Almost luminous. He was used to being sought after, and carried that peculiar confidence that came with handsomeness. So when the thin, pale figure of Laurence, with his tousled blonde hair and frightened eyes, sidled up to him that fateful winter’s day, Ludwig was quite comfortable greeting him.

“You look like you’ve just swum out of the lake,” Ludwig remarked loudly, and with a toothy grin “Like some sort of celestial monster!” The boy responded with a startled look – like he wasn’t used to being spoken to _at all_ , let alone in such a manner.

“I – I’m sorry,” Laurence said quietly, tucking a strand of his unruly hair behind his ear.

Ludwig laughed heartily, clapping the boy on the back. Laurence almost fell into the cooking pot with the force of such a gesture, his books gripped tightly to his chest.

“Where are you from, boy?” Ludwig asked with another trademark grin. Despite being so close in age, Laurence seemed far younger.

“I – I do not...” Laurence tried to respond, but he felt tell-tale tears prick his eyes as he attempted to understand what was going on. All of his senses were on high alert as this hulking student bore down on him with grins and teeth and strong arms.

Before he could attempt to finish his sentence, a bell was rung.  Lectures were beginning. The vice-like grip on his shoulders fell away as Ludwig moved with Gehrman to leave the cafeteria.

Gehrman tossed a sidelong glance at the newcomer as they left, and with a controlled yet casual gesture, reached his arm out to shake his hand.

“Welcome to Byrgenwerth,” he said gruffly. Laurence had reached for the outstretched hand hesitantly – something about him was frightening, apart from the usual social anxiety. As the older student shook his arm (almost violently), Laurence noticed just how calloused and weatherbeaten his hand was. Compared to his own, it was like velvet against stone.

“M—My thanks,” he said softly, though the student had already moved away by the time he managed to speak. He was left alone, by the cooking fire, books still clutched to his chest like some sort of talisman.

The lecture halls of Byrgenwerth, though lofty in their descriptions in the endless tomes that would come later, were nothing important. They were quite simple in design, and smelt of old paper and that heady aroma of ancient wood. They were too hot in summer, drafty in winter, and all year round they were Laurence’s sanctuary.

As he set foot in the Celestial Lecture Hall (the largest, and home to most undergraduate students in their first years) he felt a tide of emotions sweep over him. He could see the lecturer – Master Willem himself! – stood at the blackboard. His back was towards the rest of the room, but Laurence could see the cut of his figure quite well as he entered. He was tall, though a little stooped. His hair, thick and black, was peppered with silver, and the hand that gripped a piece of chalk, was gnarled with age. He was writing feverishly across the board, every now and then taking a measured step to the right as he continued his writings. Next to him was a relatively tall student, his hair a shock of dark unruly curls that looked unwashed in the glow of the oil lamps about them. As Laurence walked past them to find an empty seat, the student glanced his way.

Laurence almost dropped his books as the force of the young man’s eyes pierced him where he stood. They were impossibly large, and drooped slightly, like he was bored with everyone and everything around him. But the irises were a crystal clear blue, and sharp as flint. As quickly as he had fixed his stare on him, it was gone, focussing on the Professor once again as he resumed their heated conversation.

“But Master Willem, surely there’s _more_ ,” the student hissed, moving closer to the Professor as he continued his measured steps and measured writings. Oblivious to the gravity of their conversation, Laurence moved away and found a spare seat at the front right of the theatre, and gingerly – deathly afraid of making a mistake in front of the students seated around him – placed his books on the desk and sat himself down quietly. He even held his fingers under his books as he placed them, so as not to make any sound.

_If only I could be invisible_ , he thought tiredly. It was, of course, not the first time he had thought this. And just as his mind began to tunnel back into that safe den of fear and doubt, a voice cut through the insular mutterings like a blade.

“Ah, the Celestial Monster! We meet again,” that same bright, booming voice. A hand clasped his shoulder again, and this time Laurence steeled himself for the vice-like grip. He glanced down at the hand – the digits there were almost impossibly large. Just what did they _feed_ this man?

He was surprised the tall handsome student was even _here_ at all. Surely he must be close to graduation – perhaps even a postgraduate student? But here he was, in a first-year lecture, seated right behind Laurence, and looming.

“Y—yes,” Laurence managed lamely. He dared not make eye-contact with the man, scared of what kind of eyes belonged to such a hulking brute. Were they the same age?

“I didn’t know they let such younglings in anymore,” the man continued with another of his toothy grins. “Apart from Caryll, of course,” and the man gestured with one large arm over to a young girl right in the front row. She had short, almost abrasive blonde hair that was cut in a perfect line just under her ears. A closely shaven undercut revealed a disciplined and practical girl, though her face looked barely old enough to marry, let alone attend the college. She glanced over their way at the loud mention of her name with a distasteful look. Her eyes were almost white, and seemed to _study_ Laurence invasively as she stared. She looked away.

Laurence gulped as his mind attempted to keep pace with the social events unfolding around him. _Invisible, please, let me be invisible_ , he begged to the stars. But the loud man behind him wouldn’t allow it.

“So I’m Ludwig, by the by, thank you for asking,” the man named Ludwig went on, thankfully removing his hand from Laurence’s shoulder. He almost _lounged_ in his chair, arms draped over the back as if he were reclining on a sofa, and not squashed into the tiny wooden chair like a teacher in a kindergarten. Laurence noted to himself the powerful muscles on the man’s arms. He wore no gown, like most of the others, which revealed the uniform tunic and white collared shirt underneath. It was pulled taut over his biceps in a most unsettling way, and Laurence felt his eyes widen before regaining some measure of composure as he moved to turn away.

“ _Oh yes, a pleasure to meet you Ludwig the Divine, my name is Young-Lake-Monster-The-Third_ ,” the man continued with a loud laugh. His tone was altogether unpleasant as he mocked Laurence mercilessly.

Laurence panicked. Quickly, and with that awkward gait of someone deathly afraid of falling, he stood where he was. With a curt bow, he offered his hand shakily, working hard to keep his eyes trained on the wall at the back of the theatre.

“My n—name is Laurence, it... it is a pleasure to make your a—acquaintance,” and he bobbed his head again in a small bow, blonde curls falling over his eyes unceremoniously with the jerk of his movements.

Ludwig laughed loud enough to shake the very walls.

“Oh – oh, that is _precious_ ,” he made a show of wiping a tear from his eyes as he kept on laughing. Moving to stand from his reclining pose, Laurence couldn’t help but notice he sat with his legs _wide_ apart. This man ... this _Ludwig_ ... Laurence could hardly stomach him. He was so brazen!

Ludwig stood up to his full height, towering above Laurence as he remained stooped in a bow. With a quick movement, he clapped both meaty hands on Laurence’s slim shoulders, almost  _lifting_ him off the very ground.

“Lighten up, boy!” he laughed, “Don’t mind my manners. You see, I’ve been at this far longer than you, and I assure you, us _Byrgenwerth Scholars_ are nothing more than dressed up school children. You have nothing to fear from _us_.”

It took Laurence a moment to understand what he was hearing, but as the realisation dawned on him, he allowed himself to look into the stranger’s eyes. What he found there would stay with him until his final days.

Ludwig’s skin was healthy, yet pale, with soft tinges of pink along his high cheekbones. There were dimples carved into his skin that only served to make him look younger. And yet his eyes were intelligent – _old_. They were dark, like black pools of ink, but something about them made Laurence unspeakably _warm_ deep in the pits of his chest. He was baring his teeth in that trademark grin, but his eyes ... they were telling him ...

Everything was alright.

Laurence breathed slowly, trying to match his stare with equal mirth. All he managed was a lopsided grimace which only made the other student laugh all the more.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance _too_ , Laurence,” Ludwig said, far softer this time. Laurence dared not look about to see who was watching, though something told him from the ruckus in the room that nobody had even noticed.

Caryll had noticed, however. And Gehrman, who sat shrouded in shadow beside his tall friend. Micolash noticed, though chose not to care. Maria noticed everything, though _this_ meeting was of particular interest. She knew of the boy — and his family.

“Yes,” she muttered to herself at the back of the hall. “This should be _interesting_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that Miyazaki has gifted us poor writers with a potential College AU ... that doesn't have to be an AU??? The possibilities?? Are insane????


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence glimpses the true face of Byrgenwerth

The students of Byrgenwerth were afforded quite free leisure hours, compared to most other colleges. Master Willem’s primary philosophy was one of _true_ learning, whereby students were encouraged to learn and understand on their own terms. This led to many hours of feverish discussion, which could last all night and into the wee hours, or extend after a lecture until the sun would set over the shining lake.

Laurence became accustomed to seeking the quiet of the libraries when such leisure hours occurred. Most of the students were fond of training – Ludwig, of course, being one of them – and would take up the various courtyards and gardens with exercise drills and sparring matches. After finding himself in the thick of a duel between Ludwig himself and the elusive Lady Maria, and having his precious books tossed into the dirt of the garden beds, Laurence hardly dared venture outside again.

The libraries were quiet enough, and though Laurence would have preferred total silence, he had come to accept the mutterings and whispers of his peers on the odd occasion. Today was eerily quiet, however, and their leisure hours were far longer than Laurence had ever remembered. Master Willem had begun their morning lecture, “On Phantasms and Symbiosis,” quite early, only to be interrupted some twenty minutes later by Micolash, who came bursting into the room and racing toward the Professor like his own robes were on fire. After a brief, and almost violent, discussion, Master Willem had dismissed the whole lecture hall and hurried out with Micolash hot on his heels.

_Most strange_ , Laurence mused, as he reached for another of his tomes. He knew that the following weeks were going to be focussed on phantasms and cosmic connections, so he had found every related article, treatise, essay, and even fiction he could get his hands on. His current intellectual meal was one such piece of fiction – _Hymn of the Cosmos_ – which followed some kind of ritual uncovered in the Old Labyrinth some century or so before. It took great liberties when describing the ancient civilisation that had once habited such places – the people seemed impossibly attractive, and the ritual turned into a sort of smutty orgy by the time it was finished.

Laurence scoffed as he flicked through the pages. To think people actually found _pleasure_ in reading such tales. Of course, _he_ was still reading by the time the Ancient Queen was taken by her fourteenth male servant, and it was in the middle of a rather sordid paragraph that Laurence was suddenly interrupted by a piercing grip on his shoulder.

He leapt out of his chair with an embarrassing yelp and realised with feverish anxiety that he had had his nose almost pressed against the pages, his ears and neck red hot. When he looked to see who had caught him, he saw none other than the lanky figure of Micolash, his dark curls hovering above him like some sort of ominous black cloud.

“Laurence,” he said blankly, “Master Willem has requested your presence in his study. Immediately.” The taller student had a strange way of talking – it was lilting and soft, though there was a sort of vicious undertone to every word he spoke. He bit off the end of each word as if it were an unpleasant piece of meat.

“M—Master Willem?” Laurence asked, immediately fixing his hair that constantly hung over his eyes. He was slightly less self-conscious in the presence of Micolash, however, whose hair looked greasier and more unkempt than usual.

“Yes, Laurence, Master Willem,” Micolash replied impatiently. His eyes stared him down with that same indifferent expression. It was enough to send Laurence’s anxiety into a frenzy. _Had he displeased him?_

“Yes, of course,” and with frantic movements he gathered his tomes and went to exit the library.

He had thought he was alone until he reached the door and was suddenly stopped in his tracks by a long arm that slammed against the wood of the door. Laurence spun around only to come face to face with Micolash towering above him, pinning him against the door with his arm outstretched.

“You won’t be needing _those_ ,” Micolash said with venom. He was gesturing to the stack of tomes haphazardly tucked into Laurence’s hands.

_Hymn of the Cosmos_ was blatantly visible at the top of the pile.

Painfully aware of how close they were - and how well-read Micolash was - Laurence could hardly mask the deep red blush that burned across his cheeks, spreading to cover his ears and throat like an accusatory rash.

He tried to make himself as small as possible against the door, hurriedly stuffing the books into his satchel – it was the only way he could think of getting rid of the evidence – all the while the imposing figure of Micolash loomed over him.

He heard a strange sound.

It was like a rasping, gravelly sound, and yet it was also … sweet, in a peculiar way.

Was it ...?

Micolash was _laughing_.

Laurence felt his eyes go wide, the blush creeping to cover his entire face as he dared to look up at Micolash’s face.

The student’s eyes still held that strange, drooping sadness, and yet they were sparkling with amusement. The skin around them crinkled into laugh lines Laurence was sure had hardly been used. And there was a smile. A strange, all-too-inviting smile that suddenly turned Micolash’s face into something ... very pleasant to look at.

“Oh ... oh it’s too much,” Micolash chuckled, his shoulders shuddering as he attempted to quiet his laughter. He reached for his hair and ran long, pale fingers through its strands.

Laurence was transfixed, and try as his mind might to wrench him back into that familiar cave of fear and doubt, his body seemed to have other ideas. He couldn’t help but notice how _particular_ Micolash’s fingers were. How mobile his mouth was as he spoke ... like he knew exactly how to move it. Where to place his tongue. The sharpness of his own teeth...

Micolash seemed to calm himself, though that same unnerving twinkle remained in those piercing blue eyes, and his teeth still flashed in a disarming smile. After a moment, he seemed to notice Laurence’s staring, and the smile turned … dark.

“Oh, come now, little boy, you have nothing to fear from _me_ ,” Micolash’s voice had suddenly turned to velvet. It dripped with ... what was it? Laurence could feel his mind racing as a warm, almost sickening feeling threatened to take hold of his lower abdomen.

The taller man suddenly reached down and gripped Laurence’s jaw between thumb and forefinger. Laurence could feel his eyes going wide, his breath suddenly catching in his throat as the sensation of those fingers against his skin set his blush aflame. He could only imagine how _red_ he must be right now. He felt positively fit to burn.

And yet Micolash did not let go of his chin. He was peering down at him ... like a slug. A rat. A rat in a maze. That was exactly how Laurence felt … his every move scrutinized, almost like Micolash could read his mind.

_Dear gods, please, don’t let him read my mind_.

Because all he could think, as the fear burnt away in his throat and turned to desire, was what it could be like to have those hands ... mouth ... teeth ... do to him exactly as he had read men did. The skin on skin. The positions. The _invasiveness_...

And as his mind conjured up images he never thought possible, Micolash’s face drew ever closer to his own. His eyes, even in the shadows that drew long across the library walls, were glimmering like lanterns. And they were all too knowing.

“Come,” his voice crooned, “Perhaps we can continue this ... _discussion_ at a later date,” Micolash grinned, and as he began to pull away, his face dipped just close enough to wash Laurence in his hot breath, his lips mere inches away from his own ... mouth open...

And then he was gone.

The door opened behind him and Laurence just had time to watch the tails of Micolash’s robes flutter away through the door, and into the darkness of the hallway.

He stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, though the shadows hardly moved at all. He was still clutching one last book – _the_ book, of course – and staring wide-eyed at his shoes below him. His mind was reeling to catch up with what had happened, but he couldn’t stop it from replaying those same _sounds_ over and over...

_Perhaps we can ... continue this ... discussion..._

It took all his strength of will to stay upright as his heart swelled with the _possibility_ of it all. His mind was all too used to _possibilities_. Yet up until Byrgenwerth it had always been _dark_. Always tunneling in the same way, fearing, doubting, worrying about every step, every word. Now...

Now the future seemed all too inviting.

He reached a hand up to his face, trying to wipe away the deep red blush that still burnt across his features. A pointless task, as the more his mind raced ahead of him after the student that was now walking away down the hall with a menacing grin across his face, the deeper the blush became.

“Come on, Laurence,” he hissed at himself, shaking his shoulders and taking a deep breath. He had to calm down. Master Willem was waiting.

He glanced at _Hymn of the Cosmos_ still in his hands. It would probably be best to leave it behind...

Chewing on his lower lip, he suddenly stuffed it in his satchel along with the rest and hastily made his way out of the library. With a strange spring in his step, he walked through the halls of Byrgenwerth to Master Willem’s study.

 

*                       *                       *

 

The Provost’s study hardly deserved the name. A “study” suggested a small, quiet room, with perhaps enough space for bookshelves. This was a building in and of itself – right beside the lake, and sporting its own lunarium off the second floor. There was a large winding staircase that seemed more suited to Castle Cainhurst than a college, and Master Willem’s own desk took up a full third of the first room. Surrounding it were walls upon walls of books – some were _ancient_ , with special casings around them to preserve their crumbling pages. Some seemed almost too new to warrant collection; endless rows of popular fiction, pamphlets, newspapers … it was like all the information of the world was crammed into every space, every facet of this room.

As Laurence entered, his feet moved of their own accord as he drank it all in. What _secrets_ must be housed within these walls! His mind, still feverishly racing from the events in the library, now picked up a new exciting path. He walked to the nearest bookshelf and began fingering the spines of all the books he saw.

_Celestial Configurations and Carnal Alignments … Prismatic Hymns … Blood Poems: An Anthology …_

He couldn’t help but grin, wide-eyed and hungry, at the possibilities this shelf _alone_ held. So, it came as a shock when the sound of someone gently clearing their throat reached Laurence’s ears.

As Laurence whirled around, he realised he had hardly noticed the Professor himself, standing with his weight resting against his desk, arms folded across a pristine pin-striped waistcoat. A gold pocket-watch chain glinted as he pushed himself off the desk, and Laurence couldn’t help but notice just how _distinguished_ Master Willem looked. Almost like royalty.

“Young Laurence,” the Master said softly. Despite hearing his voice every day in his lectures, Laurence still found it refreshingly easy to listen to. There was no trace of hidden meaning or dark undertones like so many others he spoke with. With Master Willem, it was all open for the world to see. And fit to bursting with _knowledge_.

“I am glad you found time to meet with me,” the Master continued. He walked over and clapped Laurence on the shoulder warmly, and smiled.

“Not at all, Master,” Laurence replied with a lopsided smile of his own. He was looking up at the old Professor through his tangled blonde curls and reached to move them away. Master Willem chuckled.

“I had feared you may not come at all,” he said as he walked back toward his desk. It was covered in papers and tomes of all shapes and sizes. The wall behind wallpapered with hastily scrawled notes and drawings. As Laurence went to join his Master, his gaze was drawn to a strange sketch of what looked like an eye. The drawing was clearly done in great haste – the lines were scratched by some sort of ink, with dark splotches where the ink had run in the artist’s haste. Yet, there was something about it. Something that seemed all too real…

“Ah, don’t mind those,” Master Willem said dismissively, coming to stand behind Laurence as he stared. “Not my greatest works, by far.”

Laurence raised his brow, “These are yours?” He asked in awe.

Master Willem chuckled, “Yes, my boy. Unfortunately. Nothing like our young Caryll’s works, of course, but she so rarely visits my study I can never get her proper opinion…” As he spoke, his eyes seemed to travel far away, gazing at some distant thing Laurence would never be able to see.

“I … was there something you wished to speak with me about, Master?” Laurence asked, turning away from the drawing. Master Willem snapped back to the present.

“Yes, Laurence,” the Master sat down wearily at his desk, folding his leg and reaching for a nearby quill. Laurence noted absently that there were _many_ quills at his desk. Enough to keep Laurence writing for decades.

“I have just finished reading your _excellent_ essay on Pthumerian anatomy, and I must say, Laurence, you have a knack for _hunting_ knowledge,” the Master reached past his quill, and picked up a rather modest pipe. He filled and lit it with the ease of someone with a lifetime of smoking behind them.

“So, tell me, Laurence,” Master Willem continued, “Where do your interests lie?” He gestured to a nearby lounge conveniently placed for discussion, and as Laurence took a seat, he wondered at how many students before him had been in his position.

Countless, he was sure. Only the very _best_ were admitted to Byrgenwerth. Excellent essays were probably the norm. He swallowed as he tried to remember his training.

 “My strengths lie in historiographical analysis and psychological investigative methods in regards to –”

“No, no, my boy, not _that_ drivel,” Master Willem let a slow puff of smoke escape his lips. “I’ve heard that already. What _interests_ you. The real you, mind, not the you your _parents_ designed.”

Laurence’s mouth felt impossibly dry.

“I—I’m not sure…” he swallowed. “I’m not sure what you mean, Master.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. The old Professor eyed him inquisitively, one bushy eyebrow raised as his eyes glinted with deep knowing. Laurence knew it was hopeless to try and hide from him, yet his old habits had his mind in a vice, and he couldn’t help but stand his ground, glancing away from the Master’s invasive stare.

“Hm,” Master Willem said eventually, “A pity.” He sighed as he leant back in his chair with a creak, his knees snapping audibly as he crossed his leg once again. “Perhaps another time.”

The Master turned his chair away from the boy, large plumes of sweet-smelling smoke streaming back across his shoulders as he did so. Laurence was left, hands bunched into white-knuckled fists on his legs, trying to ignore the smarting in his eyes and the hot swelling in his throat.

He gazed once again at the walls of books – the impossible _wealth_ of knowledge present in just this room – and found himself wondering at all the things he _could_ learn if he could forget what had brought him here. If he could forget the bitterness of his mother … or the callousness of his father…

“M—Master!” his voice left his throat of its own accord, and Laurence reached for his throat almost as if he were trying to force it back in.

The old Professor glanced back at him from over his shoulder.

“Yes, my boy?”

“I—I apologise…” Laurence gripped his trouser legs again, almost drawing blood as his nails dug into skin. “I’m … I’m not…” he tried to swallow the lump in his throat away, but it was no use. The tears stung, and then spilled over, marking him the weak fool once again.

He was staring at his shoes, polished just this morning, and now stained with damning tears. As he sniffled miserably, a shadow passed across them, and a hand softly touched his arm.

“It’s alright, my boy,” Master Willem said kindly. He was kneeling beside him now, and Laurence felt a sickening pang of guilt at making the Master kneel with his old knees and stooped back. What kind of a _monster_ …

“That mind of yours needs to take a back seat, sometimes,” his voice cut across his thoughts. It was gentle, and spoke with a deep understanding. He reached his arm about the boy’s small shoulders and held him for a moment. It only served to make Laurence weep all the more.

“I—I’ve never … it’s just …” he shuddered a sob, “I don’t _know_ ,” he whispered.

The Master moved to sit beside him on the couch, one arm – weak in age, though still strong compared to the shuddering shoulders of the small boy beside him – still draped around him.

“That’s perfectly alright,” the Master said softly. “Now you _know_ what you _don’t_ know,” Laurence could hear the smile in his voice, and couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his own mouth, sounding ridiculous with his now stuffed nose and quavering voice.

“I … I’ve always wanted to come here,” Laurence whispered, “Even though they _forced_ me I … I still wanted to…”

“You wanted to learn, child,” Master Willem finished for him. “You wanted to _grow_. It’s an excellent way to begin, here at this old college of mine.” The old Professor reached for his pipe once again and took a long, deep drag. Laurence watched the embers grow bright orange … and tried not to think…

“Here at Byrgenwerth, it’s all about learning at _your_ speed,” he continued. “You have a brilliant mind, my boy. And, before it gets carried away, I _don’t_ just say that to everyone,” the Master turned to give him a conspiratorial wink. Laurence gulped.

“I wanted to tell you, Laurence, that we have … discovered something,” the Master went on. His voice was still clear and inviting, though something about its tone changed slightly. Laurence watched him intently.

“Deep in the Labyrinths … a kind of _clue_ if you like. We know of the Pthumerians, and the land of Isz, of course. Their great power, and great destruction at the hands of some … unknown plague. Yet what we _didn’t_ know, until now, was what they were hiding deep in those tombs.” Master Willem took another long drag from his pipe, and exhaled slowly, measuring his next words.

“Some of the tombs – for that is what we’ve come to call them, though evidence of great buildings and gardens and gods know what else can also be found there – anyhow, some of the tombs are so _deep_ and so _sealed_ that certain … properties remain preserved.” The Master took another drag, and despite the calm to his voice, Laurence could have sworn he saw the Master’s hand shake ever so slightly.

“Our team were not able to retrieve anything, with a few unable to even return. The tombs are … inhabited, after all. Our archaeologists simply aren’t equipped to mount such expeditions so _deep_ …” another drag, another plume of sickly-sweet smoke.

Laurence waited.

“So, I have begun … another team,” the Master said, barely audible as his voice dropped to a whisper. His eyes were trained on the stairway, where a few of the senior students were making their way to the lunarium. The Master’s keen eyes trailed them as they mounted the stairs, waiting until their footfalls on the old wooden floorboards disappeared into nothing.

“I’m sure you’re aware some of our archaeologists have begun a training of sorts?” the Professor glanced at him. Laurence managed a small nod.

“They are to front this team. Their task is a monumental one, and exceedingly dangerous if handled incorrectly. That is why …” he took another drag, closing his eyes momentarily and breathing the smoke in deeply. Laurence waited patiently.

“ _That_ ,” Master Willem’s voice took on an almost desperate tone, his eyes pinning Laurence with a feverish intensity. “That is why I have called you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence is my sweet child of the cosmos and if anything bad happens to him in this story I'm supposedly writing of my own free-will, I'll kill everyone in this room, and then myself


	4. Among Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence finds himself in the midst of grave circumstances. A team is formed

On the second floor of Master Willem’s study, a casual arrangement of sofas sat nestled in the corner by the stairway. Initially, the area had been Master Willem’s private place of reflection, the second floor being off-limits to students. However, when the lunarium was added, Master Willem opened the doors of his secluded study to all, and the little quiet place of reflection was now a place where students often sat together and engaged in discussions that were, for the most part, far from quiet.

Caryll wondered at how peaceful this place must have been, before the students arrived.

“It’s not about _you_!” Micolash cried, leaping from his seat. “There are _countless_ souls across Yharnam – everywhere! – who need _our_ help.”

Micolash was vicious at his best, Caryll knew. Yet she noted, absently, that as he stood with disheveled hair and eyes ablaze, facing down the statuesque figure of Maria, he was positively beast-like.

“You speak only of _hypotheticals_ , Micolash,” Maria responded. She was leaning against a nearby bookshelf, half in shadow. For many of them, this evening was the first time they had ever heard her speak – in any other circumstance it would have been pleasant, with a soft accent adding intrigue to every word she spoke. In the current moment, however, she simply sounded, well, intimidating.

“What we _know_ , is that this substance is _dangerous_ ,” she continued, glancing out of the nearby window into the last rays of sunlight that set across the grounds. With winter in full frigid bloom, the nights were growing longer, and Caryll knew tonight would be the longest of all.

“Since when do you care about danger, Maria?” Ludwig chimed in from the stairs. He was leaning nonchalantly against the balustrade and spoke in a teasing tone, yet his eyes conveyed anything but indifference.

“Dangers _I_ can control are one thing,” she shot back, pinning him with her stare. “Your blade is no more a danger than swimming in the depths of the lake.” She pushed herself off the bookshelf, moving to stand directly in front of Micolash, still livid, and clenching his fists.

“ _This_. Whatever _this_ is, it’s beyond any of our control. I’m making this about _me_ because _I’m_ involved, do you understand?” She suddenly grabbed Micolash’s shoulders with a fearsomely strong grip. He glared back at her, and for a brief moment, Caryll thought he might pounce on her like a caged dog. Yet Maria stood her ground and peered into his eyes with a desperation Caryll knew all too well at this point.

Micolash visibly calmed.

“We’re all involved,” he whispered, reaching to hold his head in his hands. Caryll leant forward in her chair, noticing the strained look in Micolash’s eyes. There was a hint of mania there, hidden in the bright blue irises, though the instant she managed to capture it in her mind’s eye, it was gone again. She wondered if she could still draw it if she found the time.

Micolash sat back down as if his own weight were too much to bear. Leaning forward with his head still in his hands, he let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“This boy won’t change anything,” Maria continued, glancing at each of them in turn. Gehrman, Ludwig, Caryll, Micolash. They were all barely acquaintances, let alone friends. Caryll was sure most of them despised each other equally.

Clearing her throat softly, Caryll put her drawing pad to her side, signaling to everyone that she had something important to say. Due to her mysterious nature, all eyes turned to her as she moved.

“He will,” she said, her voice soft and yet discernibly confident. “His work is unparalleled.”

Gehrman scoffed. “Unparalleled? Isn’t that the same as every buttoned-up _scholar_ at this damnable place?” Maria shot him a look, which he visibly recoiled from. She gestured for Caryll to continue.

“He has an almost flawless understanding of historiography,” she went on. “Despite our recent essay only requiring a biological breakdown of Pthumerian anatomical theories, Laurence managed to cultivate some _most_ interesting hypotheses. He posited countless arguments against almost every Professor, scientist, and archaeologist worth mentioning in the field, and tore their theories to shreds.” Caryll cleared her throat again as if reciting a ledger. “His mind is analytical in the extreme. If he knew what we knew, I am confident he would be able to find a solution.”

Ludwig sighed, staring down at his feet as Caryll finished her contribution. From what little he knew of the young student, Ludwig was apprehensive. He had no tactical skill like Maria might have, no fighting instinct like Gehrman or himself. His body was small and weak, his demeanor bordering on paranoid, not to mention his social skills were all but non-existent…

And yet he couldn’t help but agree. Somewhere in Laurence’s eyes that day in the lecture hall, Ludwig had glimpsed a spark of unimaginable intelligence. A depth of understanding that rivaled even Master Willem himself.

“Well, standing around arguing won’t help us,” he said eventually. “We know what we are tasked with, the only option we have is to hear him out.”

“Quite right, young master Ludwig,” a voice chimed in from the stairs. The group all turned as one to witness Master Willem ascending, with the pale, nervous face of Laurence peeking up behind him.

“Right on cue,” Gehrman grumbled, folding his arms.

“You’re lucky the study has been … _busy_ ,’ the Professor said as he lighted the top of the stairs. “Your arguing would have scared the boy away far earlier had the seniors not been so agitatedly studying the moonrise.” Master Willem greeted the small group of scholars with a hearty smile, though his eyes were grave.

“I’ve brought Laurence up to speed,” he said simply, gesturing for Laurence to step forward. The boy looked a fair few shades paler than usual, and the signature clear look of his features had given way to a bruised pair of dark circles that furnished his anxious eyes. They darted about the room, taking each member’s face into account.

“I—I am sorry to interrupt,” he all but whispered.

Caryll watched him closely, taking in each infinitesimal movement. He was fearful, that much was certain. If one of them so much as coughed, she was sure he would dart back behind the Master’s skirts like a frightened child.

She stood slowly, clearing her throat once again.

“Laurence,” she stated simply, “We are in dire need of your assistance.” Her voice clear and high. It cut through the silence and caused Laurence’s fidgeting to stop, even if only for a moment. He flinched slightly as she stared at him, but she was confident he understood the seriousness of her words.

He glanced at Master Willem helplessly, but the old professor merely smiled in response.

“I… I don’t know what I can offer,” he said softly. “Your minds combined would be … far superior to anything I could hope to propose.” In an attempt to hide his shaking hands, Laurence anxiously tucked his hair back into place, staring desperately at the ground.

“Oh great, he’s _humble_ to boot,” Micolash said tiredly, leaning back dramatically in his chair and staring at the ceiling. “Come, _boy_ , don’t be so modest among friends.”

Caryll noticed a strange colour creep across Laurence’s features as Micolash spoke. _Interesting_ , she mused. Another piece of inspiration for her sketches.

“I – I’m sorry, I…” Laurence looked on the brink of tears. As he stammered and shuffled where he stood, the tall figure of Ludwig suddenly came to stand behind him. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and offered him a smile.

“You _are_ among friends, Laurence,” Ludwig said steadily. “I’m sure there’s little we could say to persuade you, but please believe us when we say we are interested in what you think.”

Laurence glanced up at the tall student, and Caryll noticed a visible calm descending over his features. Ludwig seemed as oblivious as usual, though something in the way he gazed upon Laurence confused her.

The boy took a deep, stuttering breath. And then spoke.

“I … part of the issue … stems from the approach thus far,” he said slowly, measuring each word carefully. He glanced at Caryll; “Your studies, for example. They’re … well, they’re excellent. Perfect, even,” Laurence’s voice rose in volume as he began to get excited. “But they only capture _one_ moment. There are _infinite_ moments when dealing with …  a higher plane, for that is what I must believe we are dealing with. If we are to study these beings and their … effects … we, well, we must _elevate_ our thoughts .” Laurence glanced at Master Willem anxiously, seeking some sort of reassurance. Master Willem nodded solemnly.

“We are thinking on the basest of planes,” the Professor said slowly. “If what we’ve discovered _is_ what we think it is, then essays and sketches won’t be enough.”

“Exactly,” Laurence replied, gaining speed as his mind tumbled along its thought process. “Exactly, but if we approached it _differently_ – with different tools, different _minds_ – perhaps we could find something _more_.”

Gehrman scoffed. “So, you’re saying we’re not good enough?”

Laurence swallowed. Gehrman was imposing, even when he lounged in the shadows. His face was haggard, with deep circles under his eyes and a thin, hard-set mouth. The five-o-clock shadow that peppered his jawline made him look far older than he really was, and Laurence was reminded – with a turn of his stomach – of his father.

“I—no I—” he stammered.

“Leave him alone, Gehrman,” Maria said sternly. The older student grumbled at her retort, but backed down.

“It’s alright Laurence. Gehrman just hasn’t had a decent lay in a while,” Micolash said with a dark chuckle. With lightning speed, Gehrman threw one of the lounge pillows right at Micolash’s head. He ducked just in time, with another wicked laugh.

“I know it will be difficult,” Master Willem said exasperatedly. His face looked older than usual, and Caryll wondered exactly how much of this Willem would be able to stomach. He was older than he looked, that much she knew. She also knew his nature – far more than he himself knew, probably. He was soft – prone to attachments. _Feelings_.

Would he be able to forgive himself?

“Yet, I have faith I have chosen the right people,” the Professor continued, offering each of them a stern look that spoke volumes. “You all excel in your fields, and beyond. Many of you have decent experience in the tombs already,” Willem gave Gehrman a knowing glance. “And now, we finally have an expedition leader.” He gestured to Laurence, who looked almost translucent as the colour drained from his face.

Maria moved suddenly, far faster than Laurence’s eye could catch. She stood before the old man with all the fury of a hurricane.

“Surely you cannot be _serious_ ,” she hissed, hands suddenly reaching for the old man’s collar. Before she could grab him, however, two pairs of arms snaked around her, and, with surprising strength, yanked her away. She hardly reacted, still glowering at the Professor with unmatched venom.

Somewhere in the background, Micolash sniggered.

Laurence panicked. “I—Master Willem, I _couldn’t_ ,” he looked at the old Professor pleadingly. “There are far better … _far_ better people…”

“ _Enough_ ,” Willem said. The room grew silent. Despite his still soft tone, his voice had a fearfully desperate edge to it – sharp enough to cut each and every student in the room deep to their cores.

Maria stiffened in Gehrman’s grasp – for only Gehrman was strong enough to subdue her – while Micolash’s grin disappeared, his eyes wide as he continued staring at the ceiling. Ludwig inhaled sharply, and Laurence was on the verge of tears.

Caryll blinked.

“Enough, all of you. Don’t you understand what this _means_? What us – here, in this room – what it truly _means_!”

The echo of Master Willem’s voice carried throughout the building. The background hum of busy students quietened into deafening silence. Laurence tried to hold back a whimper.

“Laurence. Dear child,” Willem covered his eyes with a shaking hand, “You’re the _only_ one who can lead them. You may not understand now, as you are, as your _mind_ is, but …” the old Professor moved his hand, eyes glimmering as he gazed down at his young pupil. He reached a trembling hand to cup his face warmly.

“You _must_ try,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just emotion that's taking me over~  
> Tied up in sorrow, lost in my soul~


	5. Attack A Man While He's Eating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gehrman and Maria continue their training.

The quietest place on the college grounds, as Laurence was yet to discover, was a small grove to the east of Mater Willem’s study. From the treeline, it was all but imperceptible. All that marked its existence was a small stack of rocks that indicated a tiny forest trail. Perhaps it had once served a purpose to the school and its inhabitants – along the trail were more moss-covered piles that, to a trained eye like Gehrman’s, were as blatant as signposts. Yet, in the stillness of a rather bitter winter’s night, the trail, and the clearing it led to, were altogether empty.

Maria walked along the path deftly. Despite her frustration – clear in the occasional muttering Gehrman heard, and the way she swung at branches in her path – she was faultlessly dextrous. She had left her robe in Master Willem’s study, now clad only in the uniform white shirt tucked into a pair of black pants, and a simple, yet elegant, blade strung across her shoulder. Her feet were bare and moved noiselessly across the soft earth and sudden roots in their path.

Not for the first time, Gehrman marveled at her physique. Trained as he was, he knew when to appreciate poise and strength. Not a foot fell out of place as she weaved and darted across the forest floor. Despite his own stamina, he came up breathless as he tried to keep pace with her.

She refused to stop, however, until they were in the safety of the clearing. She took a few measured steps into its centre, and in one swift movement, abruptly spun to face her mentor with blade in hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said coolly.

Gehrman sighed. Bruises and welts still covered his body from their latest training, and in the state Maria was in now, he doubted he’d make it out of this one unscathed. He leant against a nearby tree.

“Let’s talk first,” he said gruffly. Maria squared her shoulders and shifted her footing in response, never once taking her eyes off him.

“I don’t want to talk.”

Gehrman slung his satchel to the ground, casually sifting through it to find an apple – bruised, though passable – at the bottom. He flicked a knife out of his belt and began slicing off pieces slowly.

“ _Attack a man while he’s eating and you’ve lost all honour_ ,” he quoted around mouthfuls, gazing levelly back at Maria.

The girl snarled.

“Raise your blade,” she hissed.

Gehrman cut another slice.

“What are you afraid of?” Gehrman said softly, placing the piece of apple in his mouth and chewing slowly. He watched as Maria took a calculated step toward him, and tried to stay aloof as he met her gaze. Her eyes flashed.

 

“I fear dying of old age before this _teacher_ of mine grows a pair,” she snapped. “Fight.”

Carefully, Gehrman began walking around her, still chewing slowly and thumbing the knife in his grip. Maria adjusted her stance, always keeping her blade trained at his throat. Her movements were fluid enough, though he noticed she had shifted her weight slightly too fast, one bare foot pivoting to try and compensate.

A cloud of earth flew across the clearing as Gehrman dashed toward her, exploiting her weakness. In two quick movements, he tripped and grounded her. The knife flashed in his hands as he pressed it against the pale skin of her throat. Almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Let’s _talk_ ,” he growled.

Maria huffed a stray piece of ashen blonde hair out of her eyes, glowering at her teacher with all the venom she could muster. Gehrman was straddling her, pinning her hips to the ground. One calloused hand bit into the skin of her blade arm as he held it.

He could see a strange glimmer in her eyes, hidden behind the fury. Something … unsettling.

As quickly as the thought crossed his mind, her lips were on his.

She was as calculated in her kiss as she was in her fighting. Her lips were soft, yet forced their way violently, like blades. Like war strategy. Overwhelmed, Gehrman felt his strength ebbing, and as his grip loosened on her arm, she suddenly bucked into his hips, catching him off-guard. Surprise forced his mouth open, and her tongue darted inside, feeling its way, sounding out vulnerabilities.

Gehrman was painfully aware of the friction of their hips, and gasped into her mouth as she ground against him, her hand snaking into the dark mass of hair at the base of his skull. She shifted her weight, hooking one long leg around him and pressing harder against his hips. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him, lost in her mouth as she began moving in strange rhythms against him. An uncomfortable heat had settled in his lower abdomen, and as it threatened to build, Maria suddenly twisted her hips sharply and crashed Gehrman over and into the dirt.

Her thighs gripped him like a vice, and he could almost feel every muscle working to lock him in place. Her mouth was still on his, eating up the cry of surprise, lapping at his own tongue which, of course, responded of its own accord. He tried to lean into the kiss, but Maria’s hand forced his head back into the earth, yanking at the hair painfully.

He became frantic as his trousers grew uncomfortably tight, and just as he felt himself grow against her gyrating hips, she broke the kiss.

“Will you interrupt a _woman_ while she’s eating, teacher?” she hummed, hovering over him and letting her hair fall like a white curtain. Her eyes were black as she studied him beneath her, and Gehrman tried to calm the thick rush of blood in his veins that threatened to undo him.

“Let’s talk,” he repeated, though his voice was far less commanding as it had been.

With a low, soft laugh, Maria leant down and pressed her lips against Gehrman’s throat. His muscles tensed as her mouth parted, teeth grazing the skin ever so slightly. His breathing hitched, and she hummed another laugh, sending vibrations through his throat, driving him wild. The knife had fallen out of his hand long ago, the fingers now being wound into her own smooth hands as she held him. Her hips rolled – _up_ and _down_ – painfully slowly. Softly. Teasingly.

“Maria,” he growled as she nipped at his throat, arcing into her as she slid down… up …

“I don’t … want to talk,” she whispered, mouth now at the base of his throat. He could feel every nerve reacting to her touch, his hand gripping hers furiously as her hips rolled again. Up … down …

He hissed as her other hand snaked its way under his shirt, feeling the cold of her fingers dance across his feverish skin. The muscles there bunched and tensed, and as Maria trailed her fingertips lower, Gehrman lost all control.

He was pressed against her now. _Hard_. She felt it, and played into it all too eagerly, feeling the seam of her pants bite into her as she pushed into him. He gasped, and frantically grabbed at her hair, yanking her back to his mouth, hungrily tasting her.

Their movements became a frantic dance. Dancing blades. Footwork. Trade. Riposte. The fastenings on Maria’s trousers were first to go. Her shirt was next, and lay in the dirt until the small hours of the morning. Torn. Filthy. Gehrman’s boots, tangled in a thicket.

When Gehrman entered her, she was on her back beneath him. Her body was ready for him, yielding, _soft_ , but strong. He guided her, submitted to her, took from her, toyed with her.

She screamed when she came.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Naked, sweating, shaking, Maria melted into Gehrman’s arms, nestling into the soft earth.

“Feel like talking now?” Gehrman whispered into her hair, holding her against him.

Maria sighed. “We’ve talked enough for one night.”

“We need to talk enough for the next few decades,” he said gravely.

“It’s not just up to us,” Maria snapped. “There are others.”

“Others who’ve never held a blade,” he growled, shifting to stand. Maria gripped him tighter, forcing him to stay.

“We …” she swallowed, “We’re not enough.” Her voice trembled, and Gehrman looked down to see tears shimmering on her eyelashes. He stroked her hair.

“The … thing,” he paused, trying to wet his mouth that had suddenly dried, “It’s … intelligent. Perhaps we don’t have to …” his voice faltered, slipping into nothing. The sounds of the lake filled the silence.

Maria gripped him tighter, a shiver running its course across her. Gehrman could feel every inch of her, shuddering against him, skin prickling as a breeze came off the lake. As a shadow crossed their minds.

“Do you trust him? This boy,” she whispered.

Gehrman scoffed. “No, but I don’t trust anyone, least of all you,” he kissed her head lightly. Maria sniffed as she laughed.

“They’re brilliant,” she sighed. “They’ll figure … _it_ out. Whatever it is.”

“We should start analysis on the blood as soon they are ready,” Gehrman said, staring into the stars. “Micolash has already begun…”

“As have we,” Maria said darkly, fingers tracing a small scar on Gehrman’s arm. A needle mark.

“I feel …” he swallowed, holding her tighter. “I feel _strong_. Stronger than I’ve ever felt. It almost _hurts_ … the way it … sings…” he passed a shaking hand over his eyes.

Maria kissed his chest, hand still tracing patterns across his skin.

The night was at its coldest. The lake was still. Glassy. Impenetrable.

Laurence was still awake, safe in the confines of his dormitory. He stared across that lake, as he had been for most of the night. Every so often he glimpsed his own dark reflection. A shock of blonde hair. Dark ringed blue eyes. Trembling hands.

And blood samples, scattered across tomes, scattered across the desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If everyone's quite finished, you should all listen to "Awaken" from the Jane Eyre soundtrack.


	6. Enough To Make A Man Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence imbibes, Ludwig succumbs.

The scholars had little sleep over the next harrowing months. Master Willem had insisted they document all of their research, which proved more and more difficult the closer they came to the day of the expedition. Laurence’s sudden disappearance didn’t help set their minds at ease either. After their initial meeting, he had returned to his dormitory and, as far as the group could tell, remained there.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Spring was in full swing when Ludwig began circling the dormitories at night to calm his nerves, keeping a vigilant eye on the hallway that lead to Laurence’s room. The expedition date was drawing ever nearer, and Ludwig began to fear – deep in his chest – that the boy might not have anything to show for his strange absence. That he might emerge, defeated, void of answers.

And Master Willem was of no help. He led his lectures, continued his same research, spent the evenings on the lunarium, and refused to intervene with Laurence. Ludwig had stood before him many times, out on that balcony, watching him pack his pipe or sip his tea, arguing with him, negotiating, pleading. But his face remained stoic, his answer always the same.

“Leave the boy be.”

One evening, but a few days from the date of their departure, when Ludwig was pacing Laurence’s hallway weighing up his next move, Micolash had appeared. He lighted the stairway, grinning ear to ear, eyes bright despite the deep circles that were now permanent fixtures on all of their faces. The last time Ludwig had seen Caryll, for example, on one of his longer visits to the libraries late at night, he had thought he’d seen a ghost. Her face was usually pale, but the toll her research was taking on her made her look … other-worldly.

Micolash was no different. He had an unsettling wildness to his eyes, like sleep was a distant memory for him now. He had moved his mattress into one of the laboratories, much to the chagrin of the juniors who were about to begin their mid-semester trial examinations. Whenever Ludwig visited him, he was always awake. Working. Taking samples, writing notes, dissecting, stitching…

His progress was substantial, though far from enough. Like all of them.

“Any sign?” Micolash asked in a sing-song voice. He sidled up beside the taller student and lounged against the wall.

“You know the answer to _that_ ,” Ludwig said with a sigh. He slumped against the wall alongside his friend – _acquaintance_ – and let himself slide to the floor. Silence descended as they both stared daggers at the wooden door across from them.

“He made a mistake,” Micolash said bitterly, one hand rubbing his chin. “The Master’s too _old_. Can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Ludwig tried not to react, but a stone dropped in his stomach as he felt himself agree. Perhaps the last few years _had_ been too much on the old man. He had no one to help him, after all. There were hardly any other lecturers worth their salt at Byrgenwerth – they were all nobles of some kind or another. Well-bread. Well-connected. Hollow. Try as Master Willem might to keep his ideals untarnished, the College was slowly finding itself mired in wealthy, brainless socialites. Research funding was growing thin as board members pushed for balls. Tournaments. Mainstream examinations. The “Quest for True Understanding” seemed to dim as students like Ludwig watched their old Master drown in the trappings of _administration_.

How long had it been now, Ludwig wondered? Three years? Five? They all seemed to bleed into each other, after the first graduation. It was part of the reason he felt so apprehensive about this new student. Brilliant as he was, he was still only a first year. Ludwig realised, with a bitter laugh, that the boy probably didn’t even know the rest of them were all post-graduates.

Caryll had a master’s degree already, technically eligible for professorship. Micolash and Maria were on their way to joining her. Gehrman and himself had completed a few degrees already, helped by their skill in combat. Without the two of them, Ludwig was sure none of the expeditions would have even left the college grounds, let alone broken the first few layers of the tombs. The _noble_ academic faculty despised their prowess, though this only spurred them – and Master Willem, as their mentor – on further.

They had a considerable history, young as they all were. Some sort of connection. Though Maria was elusive at best, and the recent sparring sessions and meetings being the only proper form of “conversation” they’d had in years, Ludwig had still known _of_ her all that time.

He didn’t even know Laurence’s last name.

As if feeling his frustration, Micolash suddenly darted toward the door. With one long-fingered hand, he rapped his knuckles against the wood, ear pressed against it and eyes glinting as he listened. Despite having tried the same tactic numerous times, Ludwig still held his breath as the silence dragged on.

Micolash stuttered a laugh – the sound of it setting Ludwig’s teeth on edge. The other student looked almost manic as he knocked again, louder this time. Desperate. Suddenly he was banging on the door with fists. Kicking it. Still cackling away like a madman.

“Come out… come _out_!” he sneered through the keyhole. His foot was hammering against the base of the door now. A cracking sound broke through the air, and Ludwig leapt to his feet.

“ _Enough,_ Micolash,” he said gravely, reaching for his shoulder. No sooner had he realised just how _thin_ Micolash’s shoulders felt through the folds of his robe, then the base of the door splintered against his boot.

With strange, jagged movements, Micolash was on his hands and knees, shoving his arm through the jagged hole he’d kicked through the door. Ludwig watched on, stomach knotting in fear. He’d never seen him behave like _this_. He was bordering on mania on a normal day, sure, but he was never this aggressive. This _violent_.

Micolash was still laughing - if that was the right word for it – when the door suddenly opened. Just barely. A thin sliver of blackness was all he could see as the door was pulled back. Ludwig rushed toward it.

“Laurence!” he cried, reaching to yank Micolash back by the collar. Was that _blood_ he glimpsed, on the door? On Micolash’s knuckles…

“L—Ludwig?” a voice from the darkness.

Ludwig froze, hand still knotted in Micolash’s robes as the other student tried to catch his breath. He was on his knees, trying to peer inside … and somewhere in the inky blackness beyond the door, he glimpsed something pale. Something moving…

“Laurence,” he said, voice low and even. “Are you … are you alright?”

Silence.

“We – Micolash is … Please, forgive our intrusion,” Ludwig stammered, reaching to push the door open further. The pale figure darted back into the dark.

“N—No! You can’t …” the sudden sound of hacking coughs – rattling, gravelly coughs from the depths of lungs – interrupted him. Micolash stiffened in Ludwig’s grip.

“He’s started already,” he whispered, along with a strange wet noise. Ludwig glanced down and realised he was sucking on his knuckles. The look in his eyes sent ice down his spine.

“Boy!” Micolash cried, shuffling onto his knees despite Ludwig’s iron grip, tugging against the robe futilely. “How much have you taken?”

Silence, again. Or was that … a gasp? A choking sound…

“Two shots? Five?”

A whimper.

“Laurence,” Ludwig tried again, dragging Micolash up with him as he stood. “We’re coming in.”

“N—No…” a plaintive whisper. Chewing on his lip, Ludwig shoved against the door with his shoulder, shoving it aside, letting the glow from the hallway lamp spill across…

Blood.

The smell hit him first, stinging his nostrils and forcing his throat closed as his stomach muscles writhed. He shoved his hand over his mouth and nose, stifling the gag that threatened to break through. The floor was covered with it, the walls painted with it, the bedding _sodden_ …

Micolash breathed deeply.

“ _Ah_ …” his eyes were closed, voice ecstatic. Ludwig shot him a disgusted glance.

A small sob brought Ludwig back to the room. He glanced around feverishly, trying to find Laurence amongst the filth. Books and papers were strewn across the sticky floor, some hardened by the blood into strange sharp protrusions. Even the walls were covered … sketches and diagrams smattered with drying blood. Wet blood. _Fresh_ blood. Piles of towels and sheets lay stained against one of the walls. He took a tentative step into the room, feeling the squelch of liquid under his soles.

Another sob, behind him this time. He whirled around and there, tucked into the corner of the room behind the door, shielded from the light, was the pale visage of Laurence, bone thin, dressed in only a soaked nightgown, hair matted with blood and hanging disheveled across his eyes.

“Laurence,” he whispered, hand still over his mouth. Something tugged at his heart as he saw the boy try to open his eyes, chest heaving as each breath rattled something in his lungs.

Without thinking, the looming figure of Ludwig swooped down to lift the waif into his arms. He winced as he felt the bones beneath the thin fabric, watching as the boy tried feebly to push him away. His thin fingers fumbled with the lapels of Ludwig’s waistcoat, face drawn in pain, eyelids fluttering open … closed…

Ludwig felt the tell-tale fog of rage burn across his vision. Red. Thick.

Ignoring the excited babbling of Micolash, who was already pouring over the desk by the window, Ludwig stepped out of the room, exhaling as he let go of his held breath. The stench of blood still swam about him, and he realised it was coming from the boy in his arms. In the glow of the lamps, he could see purple-black bruises across Laurence’s arms and legs, thickest in the joint of the elbow where angry black needle-marks spread into spiderwebs. The boy’s mouth was covered in blood, his lips gummed with it, teeth chattering and _slick_ with it. It spread down his neck and spattered across his chest.

Ludwig didn’t even realise he was running. He gripped the thin boy against his chest, glancing up to see a wall coming toward him. He slammed against it with the brunt of his shoulder, shielding Laurence in his arms as he pivoted and turned down the next hallway. As he crashed through the main doorway and out into the cool night air, he found himself holding the boy’s head into his chest, feeling each shuddering breath and stuttered sob against his throat as he ran through the woods.

He felt himself seethe as he thought of Master Willem.

Had he _known_?

Was this what he _wanted_?

Blind fury forced him onwards, the raging thoughts dimming as he focused. _Have to get to the sickbays... Have to save him…_

The first-year dormitories were thankfully close to the main hub of the college, though by the time Ludwig arrived at the lantern-lit doors of the sickbays, he was breathless. He glanced down at Laurence and felt another sickening tug at his heart. The boy was unconscious in his arms.

With all the strength he could muster and a strangled cry, Ludwig crashed against the doors, feeling them bend against him, but refusing to give. Seeing red, he crashed against the glass panels, crying out for help. Laurence stirred in his arms, a death-rattle choking his throat as he wrenched another cough free.

After what felt like an eternity, a light finally glimmered into view behind the glass panels of the doors. They opened on a startled young nurse who took one look at the boy and screamed. Ludwig barged passed her.

“Y-young master!” she stammered as she followed him, trying to reach for Laurence. Ludwig brushed her hands away, gritting his teeth as he tried to calm the fury that blinded him.

“Call for Master Willem,” he growled at her, darting into the nearest room. It was a small sick room with a hearth and a bed. _Good enough_ , Ludwig thought. The nurse stood at the door.

“ _Go_!” Ludwig snarled, turning to face her. She cowered back into the hall, and Ludwig distantly wondered at how _fearful_ she looked … and then she was gone.

He quickly set to work, first placing Laurence gingerly on the small bed in the corner. He tried to ignore the way his heart wrung tight in his chest as Laurence clung to him, feeble fingers trying to find purchase. He disentangled himself, tucking the boy’s thin legs – _smooth_ legs, bruised legs – into the sheets. Whirling around and pulling a set of matches from his pocket, he went about setting a fire quickly. He was so focused, he hardly noticed Laurence whispering his name…

The fire sprung to life, sending strange shadows across Ludwig’s face. He sat there, staring into the flames, trying to slow his breathing. He could still smell that strange _,_ sickly- _sweet_ stench of blood. It stuck to his very lungs, permeating every inch of him. He dared not look back at the figure on the bed, feeling his chest tighten and his throat close as a wave of emotion broiled inside him.

He knew not how long he sat there, brooding in the dark, with the pale figure of Laurence shivering and gasping in the corner. His thoughts consumed him, and when Master Willem came stumbling into the room, a silken robe covering his nightgown and dark circles framing his sunken eyes, Ludwig didn’t even hear him.

So he jumped when the Master gingerly touched his shoulder, reaching for the knife in his belt instinctively. It flashed in the firelight, and Master Willem flinched as the grim visage of Ludwig loomed over him, blade at his throat.

The old professor held his hands up, eyeing the boy with all the steel he could muster. It wasn’t the first time the Master had found himself at the wrong end of a blade – his silver tongue had saved his life more times than he could count. But something in Ludwig’s eyes told him this wasn’t the time for words. He held his ground.

Ludwig clutched the blade, trying to still his hands as a tremor took them. He could hear a rustling sound coming from the bed as the figure there moved slightly. Ludwig refused to look…

“L—Lud…wig…” a breathless voice from the dark.

The ferocity of Ludwig’s face visibly softened into fear, and with his prey all but forgotten, he spun to face Laurence. All of his rage melted away. He dropped the knife, and rushed to kneel beside him.

Long into the future, Ludwig would hold that moment close to his heart. He couldn’t explain what drew him to that shuddering, sickly figure. But something about the way he whispered his name … reached for him … it was enough to make a man sick.

As he drew the boy into his arms, and held him on that sickbed long into the night, the Old Blood coursed through Laurence’s veins, and The Beast began to grow within them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No Time For Caution" from the Interstellar Soundtrack is a really, _really_ good song.


	7. The Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig experiences the true price of Blood ministration

 

Laurence felt himself rise out of the red, breaking the surface like breaking water. The moment was so crystal clear, he could almost feel the liquid dripping down his face … the cold shock of air, the water draining from his lungs, the _sharpness_ of his mind.

Gasping and trembling like a new born, he flung himself up…

Into a room.

A dark wooden wall greeted him, weathered. The room stank of it. That musty earthen smell. He glanced down and saw white sheets, speckled with blood ( _blood!_ ) and soaked with sweat. His hands lay on them, fingers bone thin and pale white. He reached them up to his face, trying to count the fingers there. Was he whole? _Himself_?

As he tried to move to feel the rest of his body, his eye suddenly caught a mass of dark hair ( _fur)_ at his side. It rose and fell like it was breathing… connected to…

His eyes grew wide as he noticed the sleeping figure of Ludwig, seated beside the bed, doubled over on the sheets with his hands outstretched toward him. Had he been holding his hand…?

Laurence sat staring at the other student for a moment, drawing deep, ragged breaths as his mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Without thinking, he reached for his own face … he was sure there was …

But the skin was smooth. Clammy, and hot to the touch, but smooth. No hairs. No jutting bones.

He brought his hand before him again, holding it in front of his face, inspecting for claws. His other hand reached for his hair and found it …

Smooth. Not matted. Not _fur_ …

A soft sound of relief escaped his chapped lips as he tried not to sob.

 _Himself!_ He was _himself_ …

It was as he hugged his shoulders, rocking gently and fighting back tears, that Ludwig awoke. The other student stirred and lifted his head, looking toward his own hands resting on the bed. When he realised he was clasping at _nothing_ , his head shot up and he saw…

Laurence. _Laughing_. Tears spilled over his cheeks and dripped onto the sheets below him. His painfully thin fingers gripped his own shoulders as if he were afraid they’d disappear. Ludwig eyed him warily.

“Laurence…?” he whispered groggily, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. Was he dreaming?

The firelight danced over his features, casting dark shadows under his cheekbones, under his eyes, but he was _awake_. He was _alive_.

“Laurence,” his voice gained strength as relief poured through him. Mindlessly, he reached for the boy to draw him into an embrace, but as he did so Laurence’s eyes suddenly flashed, and he darted back in his bed, sheets tangling over themselves as he drew his feet towards him. He hugged his knees, one hand outstretched to shield himself.

“No! You mustn’t…” his voice caught in his throat as a cough – a shadow of his consumptive hacking from earlier, but still enough to shoot fear through Ludwig’s spine – wracked him. Ludwig tried to reach for him again, to calm him, but Laurence weakly batted his hand away, resting his head on his knees.

“I—I’m sorry Ludwig, but you _mustn’t_ …” the soft whine of his voice, thick with tears, gripped Ludwig’s heart.

“What is it Laurence?” he asked softly. His hand fell limply on the bed in defeat, yearning to hold. To console. The boy’s shoulders shuddered with a sob.

“It’s still _here_ ,” Laurence whispered, gripping the fabric of his nightgown tighter as he tried to make himself as small as possible. “Somewhere… inside…”

“What’s here?” Ludwig snarled, glancing about the room.

Laurence simply shook his head, rocking gently back and forth, one hand compulsively gripping, letting go, gripping …

Frustration built in Ludwig’s chest, his eyes frantically searching the room. Had he had a dream? A _nightmare_? Why wouldn’t he let him _touch_ him…

It was then that Ludwig realised the urge to touch the other student was _desperate_. It was like he needed to make sure he was real. Fist his hands in his hair. Grip his face. Embrace him…

“Laurence,” Ludwig gasped, standing and reaching over the bed toward him. The boy glanced up, eyes feverish and piercing blue, marked with fear, as the taller student moved closer. He tried to scramble back but hit his head against the wall behind him, crying out. Ludwig didn’t stop, one hand slowly moving to cup Laurence’s face. As he touched the skin, something charged through Ludwig’s veins. Electricity. Fire. Laurence reached up to try and force the hand away, but Ludwig held it there, ignoring the scrape of nails and Laurence’s desperate pleas.

“Laurence please,” he breathed, climbing onto the bed, his other hand gripping his hair, drawing him closer. He could _feel_ it, feel him in his hands. His skull was so _fragile_ that if he forced his hands … he knew he could _crush_ him.

With little effort, he pulled Laurence’s small frame into his own arms. Bending his head, he drew Laurence into him as if he could consume him, chin resting on his golden head, inhaling the smell of his hair. Laurence was shaking in his arms, trying to fight, but Ludwig was overpowering. _Everywhere_.

And he was warm.

As Ludwig held him, Laurence felt himself melting into the embrace. The fear ebbed. Like a red tide, dispersing into nothing at the fringes of his brain. Another wave followed … something he couldn’t explain. He felt the small, helpless child that controlled his mind recede into the shadows, and something else took over. Something hungry. _Desperate._ Flashes of memories sifted through the red haze that still clouded his mind. Hands gripping cloth. Strong arms. Being lifted, carried, fawned over. A cold cloth on his forehead. A soft hand on his cheek…

Ludwig froze as he felt a cold hand slip under his shirt.

“Ludwig…” Laurence breathed, mouth at Ludwig’s throat now as he squirmed in his grasp. His hand was lightly touching the soft flesh of Ludwig’s throat, the other fiddling with buttons. Ludwig cried out.

“Laurence! What are you…?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Laurence crooned. Ludwig could feel the soft flutter of his breath against his throat, and couldn’t help the shudder it caused.

Laurence’s thin fingers were now trailing lines across Ludwig’s collarbone, slipping under the shirt once again as it slowly loosened with each unhitched button. A draft fell across Ludwig’s chest as Laurence teased it open, one hand sliding over his shoulder, the other drifting low across his abdomen.

“Laurence… please. Now is not – You’re not _well_ …” he sounded ridiculous, even to himself. His voice was pleading, but it shook with a strange surge of desire that Ludwig could hardly fathom.

Did he want this?

How long _had_ he wanted this?

Laurence’s hands didn’t relent. One was firmly gripping the skin of Ludwig’s hips, their bodies painfully close. Ludwig could feel the heat of Laurence’s skin through the thin fabric of his nightgown. Could feel how _small_ he was in his arms. Laurence dove his other hand into the hair at the base of Ludwig’s skull, feebly gripping at it. Teasing…

He watched on as Laurence lifted his head to look up at him, eyes dark. Knowing. Ludwig was too far gone to question as those eyes consumed him. Laurence seemed altogether _confident_. Bristling with it. Like he’d done this before, though Ludwig was sure he had never been bedded. Had probably never even _considered_ the touch of another man…

With a feverish gasp, Laurence suddenly craned his head up to kiss him. His lips were _soft_. Oh, so soft. Yielding to Ludwig’s hungry response that he could hardly hold back. He moved deftly to straddle his hips, nightgown hiking up dangerously high as a hand pushing lightly on Ludwig’s chest, shoving him back into the sheets, breaking the kiss.

The sight was enough to make Ludwig hard. _Painfully_ hard. Laurence’s face was flushed, eyes dripping with desire as soft blonde curls framed them. They tumbled across his face like molten gold, strands catching the light of the fire. His body was all too visible beneath the thin veneer of his white nightgown. Thin, pale thighs emerged at his hips, gripping Ludwig’s waist with a strange strength.

“Laurence…” he whispered breathlessly. He could feel the desire pooling in his abdomen, a tide swirling, ready to rise … to engulf them both.

Without thinking, Ludwig suddenly bucked his hips, catching Laurence with one deft movement of his arm and flinging him down into the sheets. Fisting the fabric at the small of Laurence’s back, he bent over him, furiously kissing him. The other student moaned into his mouth, sending Ludwig’s heart racing as he hitched Laurence’s hips up off the bed, resting them in his lap. He could feel the soft press of feet against his own back, giving into their teasing as Laurence guided him closer, pressing their hips together, arcing his back into him.

Ludwig was frenzied with desire as the other student squirmed beneath him, teeth grazing Ludwig’s lips as the kiss deepened. His hands shook against the skin of Laurence’s thigh as he skimmed his hand along its surface, dipping down to cradle his back beneath the nightgown, feeling the hot skin burning under his calloused palm.

Laurence trembled, and suddenly craned up into the kiss greedily. Ludwig could feel his small tongue darting around his own, could feel Laurence arc his hips higher against him, could feel …

“Ah!” Ludwig cried out, tasting blood in his mouth. He’d _bitten_ him? Hard. Hard enough that his mouth was instantly coated in blood, trickling down his chin. Frightened as he was, the sudden violence excited him.

He glanced down with a smirk, ready to play into Laurence’s little game, only to freeze as he saw…

All trace of coyness was gone. Laurence’s face had suddenly twisted into unimaginable fear. His eyes were wide – wide enough that his pupils were almost lost. He trembled beneath the towering figure of Ludwig, who was suddenly aware of just how _large_ he was compared to this thin, shivering figure.

It was like he was a different person.

“N—No…” Laurence whispered, hands suddenly darting up to his mouth. Ludwig could see the red there … his own blood in his mouth…

“Laurence…” he said softly, setting him back down into the bed. He suddenly felt that every movement was a gamble. That in an instant this … this _boy_ would recede back into his shell. Transformed back into that same sickly, pale visage of fear.

Ludwig heard the wet sound of Laurence swallowing, saw the brief flick of his tongue …

Laurence felt himself dip back into the red waters of his mind as fire coursed through his veins.

He screamed. With wild desperation, he reached up to grip Ludwig’s shirt and _shove_ with uncanny force. His muscles tensed and something _snapped_.

Ludwig was thrown across the room, crashing into the chair he had been sitting in, splintering it under his weight as he hurtled into the floor. Empty glass vials smashed as a table fell behind him, the fire flickering with the force.

Crouched in the bed, clutching his chest and breathing desperately, Laurence watched from the shadows.

Ludwig stared after him, fixated. The scream still hung in the room, his ears ringing with its strange _piercing_ echo. He could feel the flare of pain that marked the blossoming of bruises all across his back, arms, legs. Looking into Laurence’s eyes he saw the boy’s face was _desperate_ with fear. The pupils of his eyes were so small it looked as if his eyes were almost blind.

“What—”

“Get out!” Laurence cried, baring teeth. _Fangs?_ “Get out! _Get away!_ ”

Ludwig flinched, scuffling back into broken glass and splintered wood. Laurence was beside himself with fear. No … mania. Ludwig held up his hands to try and plead with him. Show him he meant no harm…

“I can’t … it’ll come _back_ ” Laurence was shaking and gripping his hair now, doubled over. A strange hacking laugh escaped him and Ludwig tried to calm the fear that threatened to swallow him whole.

“There’s nothing here,” Ludwig whispered, trying to keep his voice steady despite the bubbling terror that choked his throat. “It’s just us… just us…”

But Laurence couldn’t hear him. He was staring into space, eyes seeing something _terrible_ that only he could see.

His voice suddenly burst from his throat – though it sounded as if the throat were _far_ deeper. Larger. Like some kind of …

“ ** _Pitiful mortal_** ,” it said. “ ** _We will rend your flesh. Taste your_ blood!**” Laurence was on all fours now, legs climbing over themselves as he leapt from the bed, standing before Ludwig like a phantom. With a shock of horror, Ludwig could see the bone of Laurence’s arm jutting under his skin, broken, forming a strange elongated limb that twitched and trembled as he drew closer.

“ ** _The sweet blood… the singing … it calls for us …”_**

Ludwig scrambled for his sword, slung in the corner with his other belongings. With uncanny speed, Laurence darted toward him, eyes wild and teeth bared as he crashed into Ludwig. Laurence’s teeth were at his throat as Ludwig stretched towards the hilt of his sword, seeing it flash in the moonlight as he touched it. As he gripped it…

A loud sparking sound suddenly broke through the room, like the crackle of lightning, but right by Ludwig’s ear. Laurence screamed that same unsettling scream and Ludwig felt the weight fall off his back, hearing the muffled thud of the boy’s thin body collapse onto the floor.

Ludwig spun around. There, standing at the door, was the tall figure of Master Willem. He was no longer stooped, and the cane he sometimes used was held before him like some kind of sceptre. A strange blue glow emanated from its head, dancing lights fluttering around him. He glanced to Laurence, who now lay motionless on the floor, smoke rising from a ghastly hole in his side.

“What ... What have you done!?” Ludwig cried, leaping to his feet and rushing the old Master furiously. Before he could swing his blade, the Master fixed him a steely glare, and flashed the cane toward him. Ludwig froze.

“You were about to do the same,” the Master said coolly, eyes never leaving Ludwig as he tracked him with the head of his weapon.

Ludwig tried to calm the shaking in his sword arm as his eyes pricked with tears.

“What … what _was_ that,” he breathed.

The Master lowered his cane, all the strength suddenly gone from his legs as he leant on it, resuming the same hunched stance of an old, _old_ man. _Older, now_ Ludwig noted. It was as if he had aged years in a matter of _months_.

“Blood,” he said grimly. “ _The_ Blood. It has … begun to change him,” Master Willem’s face crumpled in a desperate grief that Ludwig couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It was as if the old professor were mourning…

“He’ll – will he…?” Ludwig tried to speak, but his throat constricted as tears spilled over his cheeks.

“He’ll live,” Master Willem said simply, shuffling over and crouching beside the boy’s crumpled body. He lifted the broken arm and examined it with all the attention of a scientist. Ludwig swallowed.

“He _broke_ his own _arm_ ,” Ludwig whispered. “I was … trying to console him … he…” a sob caught in his throat and he stuffed his hand against his mouth to try and stop it.

“You’re probably the only one who _can_ ,” Master Willem said softly – and all-too-knowingly - reaching down to smooth Laurence’s hair from his brow. “He spoke of you, many times. The boy finds comfort with you.”

Ludwig tried to ignore the swell of emotion in his chest at the professor’s words. But something didn’t sit right…

“You … spoke? When?” He turned to face the professor, narrowing his eyes.

Willem sighed. “You didn’t think I’d leave him to his devices all those months, did you?”

Ludwig felt rage clawing at the back of his mind. “So not only did you _know_ he was experimenting on himself, you—” Ludwig tried to swallow but his mouth was suddenly all too dry. “You _encouraged_ him?”

The Master remained silent.

Before Ludwig could react, a soft rap of small knuckles at the door broke through his rage. He spun around, and saw the small figure of Caryll standing at the doorway. Her gaze was neutral, as always, but the dark circles under her eyes and the way she swayed on her feet told him she hadn’t seen a bed in as many months.

“The others are resting,” she said gravely, her voice ragged from lack of use. Ludwig tried to recall the last time he’d seen her… How long had she been holed up in her room? He noticed dark ink stains across her hands and wondered how many books were filled with sketches now.

“Thank you, Caryll,” The Master stood to his feet slowly, the cane supporting his full weight. Ludwig gritted his teeth.

“You’ve encouraged all of them, haven’t you?” he said bitterly.

But Master Willem ignored him, moving past the student slowly. Ludwig watched, clenching his fists to try and stop the surge of violence he desperately wanted to let loose. The adrenaline was sharp in his veins, his eyes flicking to Caryll who watched him levelly.

“It’s up to us to take care of them now,” Willem offered distantly as he moved to exit the room. “Micolash is the most far gone. We will delay the expedition until they are recovered. A week should be ample time.”

Ludwig snarled as he leapt at the professor, Caryll casually moving to block his path. Master Willem kept shuffling on down the hall towards the other sickrooms, oblivious to Ludwig’s fury.

“If he dies under _your_ care, I hope that cane is enough to save you, old man!” he cried, moving to shove Caryll aside. She stepped lightly out of his way, darting back to block him, eyes bitterly cold as she pierced him with her stare.

“He _knows_ , Ludwig,” she said calmly. “He hasn’t slept. None of us have. But _this,”_ she gestured to Laurence’s bloodied form on the floor.

“This is the price of evolution,” she hissed. Her eyes were suddenly ablaze with some sort of manic excitement. Ludwig took a step back.

“You’re all … you’re all insane,” he whispered, stumbling back into the wall, feeling it supporting his weight as he crashed to the floor, defeated. “Insane…”

With a glance down at the other student, in a heap on the floor, Caryll turned and followed Master Willem back down the hall. Ludwig sat against the wall, his eyes smarting as the tears threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel a deep, unfathomable fear bellowing from deep within him, like the boom of the ocean. And his mind felt ready to burst at the seams as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Hearing. _Learning._

_This is the price … of evolution …_


End file.
